


A Dance of Feather and Claw

by Lynx22281



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Mpreg, graphic birth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-01-10 21:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynx22281/pseuds/Lynx22281
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War has taken almost everything from Dean.  He has only one place left to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was alone. 

There was no one left. 

His mother, his father, his brothers, his grandparents, his cousins...all of them...massacred at Sam’s wedding banquet, the wedding that was supposed to join House Winchester to House Talbot and earn an ally in Samuel Campbell’s fight to take the Iron Throne from the Morningstar King. Instead the turncoat Talbots murdered every single member of the Winchester and Campbell families in attendance, blatantly violating the sacred covenant of hospitality for the entire world to see. 

Bobby, Benny, Victor, Ash, Aaron, and scores of good, loyal men were either dead or as good as dead if they had been captured. 

_“You listen to me, brother.” Benny grabbed Dean by the shoulders, rank be damned, and shoved him towards where the horses were tied outside the main tent. Word of the massacre had reached the battlefield. “Me and the boys got nothing, but Hell itself waitin’ for us after this battle. Our land’s all gone and our kin are all dead. We’re not gonna win, not with your granddaddies and daddy hangin’ from Black Rock Gate. That ain’t somethin’ we can rally back from. We’re down over half our own men and all of our allies are high-tailin’ it back to their homes. And, you… you got a big ol’ target painted on your forehead.”_

_“No shit,” he said despondently. He was already resigned to his fate to die alongside his men on the battlefield, to follow in the cursed footsteps of his family._

_Benny smacked a big paw gently against Dean’s cheek. “You’re the only one of us who‘s still got somethin’ to live for.”_

_Dean fingered the little strip of blue and tan tartan tied around the pummel of his sword._

_“You gotta run, Dean. Run north of The Wall where these southern bastards won’t dare step foot.”_

_“I can’t, Benny,” he cried. “I can’t turn my back while you fight my battle!”_

_“It ain’t your battle, won’t yours to begin with. It’s the battle of an old man who ain’t got nothin’ better to do than covet that his ancestors lost centuries ago. Besides, who’s to say we won’t follow you after a time,” the blue-eyed man smiled._

_Bobby turned the corner of the tent, eyes wide and alert as he pulled off his helm. “You better get going, boy. You can be across the Lawrence River by dawn if you leave now.”_

_“Bobby,” Dean pleaded._

_The older man just shook his head and wrapped Dean up in a hug of fur and leather._

_“One day Talbot’ll get what’s comin’ to him and if I have any say in the matter, it’ll be at the hands of a Winchester. But, it won’t be today,” Bobby cupped his gloved hands around Dean’s face and brought their foreheads together in farewell._

So, here he was ten days ride north of the battlefield where the blood of his men made the soil run red. Ten days ride north of where the bodies of his family rotted in a shallow grave on Talbot land. He was stripped of everything that marked him a Winchester and a Campbell, stripped of his identity as Dean Winchester, grandson of Henry and Samuel, son of John and Mary, heir to one of the oldest houses in the land. The only things that he still had possession of were the big, jet black destrier beneath him and the frayed scrap of fabric tied to his borrowed sword. 

Dean was exhausted and hungry. He stayed off the roads to avoid villages and people who might recognize him, not that it mattered. Most of the towns in this part of the country were loyal to House Winchester, and as such had been decimated by the Morningstar King’s Hellhounds, ruthless mercenaries who lay waste to everything in sight. The one village he dared to enter under cover of night was so picked over that there wasn’t even a crumb for a mouse. The berries, mushrooms, and winter-skinny hare he scrounged up in the woods couldn’t sustain him for much longer. 

The further he went, the colder the wind turned. Winter was slowly creeping towards the perpetual summer of the south. He pushed forward, mile after mile, league after league towards The Wall, walking by Impala’s side more often than not to save the beast’s strength. 

The Wall was nothing special. No towering glacier of ice. No massive timber structure. No feat of human engineering made of blocks carved from a nearby quarry. It was simply a crumbling rock boundary marker no taller than a man’s head at its highest point that stretched from east to west as far as the eye could see. 

According to legend, The Wall was a remnant from ancient days when magic users were hunted for their skills and enslaved to the power hungry mundanes from the southlands. The most powerful mages of the time sacrificed themselves to imbue The Wall with their essence and protect their people from invaders. Any who tried to cross the boundary with malice in their purpose were instantly turned to dust and blown away on the north wind. 

Or so the story went. Dean couldn’t care less about bedtime stories. He’d been north of The Wall before, made it in and back out again in one piece. 

After an hour of searching for a crossing point, he finally found a spot where the wall had fallen that was wide enough for the horse to pass through. Dean stumbled over the scattered rocks, finally falling to his knees too fatigued to continue. Impala gently nipped at his hair as though chiding him for not saving his own strength by riding. Grudgingly he climbed back into the saddle and gave the beast her head, knowing she would be able to find her way across the rocky landscape. 

Snow began to fall and grew thicker the closer they came to the smudge of dark forest looming on the horizon. Dean pulled his hood up and wrapped his scarf around his neck in an attempt to keep his face protected from the icy wind. The frigid air was brutal on his weakened lungs. Impala bent her head against the cold and kept stubbornly putting one foot in front of the other. 

Dean heard the raucous caw of a raven overhead. Glancing up he saw a huge black bird loop above him before flying back in the direction it had come from. Not long after the crow disappeared into the fog of snow, something huge and heavy came loping up beside the horse. Impala shied away briefly from the large animal before catching a whiff of its familiar scent. A massive white dire wolf threw back its head, giving a plaintive howl before leading the horse through the blizzard. 

He’d been spotted. Relief flooded through his veins, leaving him dizzy from the rush. Overcome with the knowledge that he was finally safe, he slumped over his saddle horn.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! Game of Thrones is back!

The sun was warm on his face, glowing red behind his closed eyes.  He smiled at the feel of it.  It had been too long since he’d felt the summer’s warmth sinking into his bones.  Winter had settled over Lawrence many years ago, so long now that the babes born during the last warm months were going on a decade old.   

 

Long fingers carded through his hair and a low voice spoke softly over him, its tone worried though he couldn’t make out the words being said.  He furrowed his brow.  The warmth was too nice to allow for such concern.

 

Babes.  There was a child out there somewhere who had his blood running through its veins.  That thought warmed him even more than the sun above.   He had no idea if the little one was a boy or a girl, just that it was his and he hoped the Gods were willing to allow him to meet it one day.

 

As if called forward by thought alone, he heard the delighted shriek of a child and turned his head, opening his eyes.  Off in the not too far off distance was a spritely little thing, no more than two summers old, in a short white tunic chasing after a butterfly.

 

Rolling his head back to its previous position, he looked up.  Worried blue eyes looked down at him.  He lifted his hand to cup the face looming over him and smiled as he murmured teasingly, “Always so serious, _mo ghealach_.”

 

The world shifted violently, pitching him onto his knees, retching into the muddy, moldy straw spread out under the great table taking up most of the room in the large tent that leaked with rain.  Hands grabbed him under his arms pits and hauled him into a chair.  His eyes locked on the basket sitting in the middle of the table, red viscous liquid oozing out from the bottom of the container, spreading out over the maps and missives littering the area.  Blonde hair poked out from the gaps in the woven reeds.  The lifeless hazel stare that looked out from the basket was imprinted in his mind’s eye no matter how hard he tried to blink it away.

 

He wanted to scream, to tear out of his hair, to strike down the evil beast who had done that to his youngest brother, but his body had gone stupid, refusing to obey his command.  He jerked and twitched, fighting uselessly against the hands that held him down, flat against the ground.

 

“ _Dean_.”

 

He shook his head against the call of the voice.  No, _he_ couldn’t be here.  Dean had sent him away, far away from the sickness and death of the battlefield, away from those treacherous backstabbing bastards who had taken his family.  They couldn’t take everything away from him, not while he was stubbornly holding onto the little ray of sunshine that had come into his life when he was just seven and serving as a page to his grandmother Deanna.  He’d made sure to protect him, sent him home, past The Wall, with Chevy to guard him and keep him safe.

 

“Dean,” the voice called firmly.  “Please, Dean.  You’ve been asleep too long.”

 

A wet nose pressed into his neck, a nervous whine vibrating against his skin.

 

He flinched and grumbled, voice hoarse with disuse and barely audible.  “Goddamn, mutt.”

 

He heard a soft huff of laughter as those long fingers found their way back into the short strands of hair above his forehead.

 

“Open your eyes for me, _mo ghrian_.”

 

He might as well have been asked to move a castle.  He wanted to open his eyes, but they would not cooperate.  After what felt like an eternity, he managed to part his eyelids to thin slits, but couldn’t make out anything more than dim, blurry shapes.

 

“There you are,” the voice said, relieved that he had managed to do something so trivial.

 

His lips parted again, but a fingertip pressed lightly against them.

 

“Don’t speak, just listen.”  The finger caressed him gently, spreading a soothing balm over his chapped skin.  “A patrol found you at the border three days ago, barely alive.  As far as I can tell, you are ill with lung sickness, but uninjured.  Your fever broke just a few hours ago.  You’re very weak, but on the mend.”

 

“Im…?” he began, but his parched throat would allow him to go no further.

 

“Impala’s in the stable getting reacquainted with Judah.  I think they were very happy to see each other.”

 

That brought a smile to his lips.

 

Strong hands helped him roll onto his side and brought a warm mug to his mouth.  With gentle encouragement he managed a few swallows of hot, salty broth seasoned with strong healing herbs before the little energy he had failed him completely and he once again succumbed to unconsciousness.

 

*****

 

When he next awoke (hours or days later, he couldn’t tell), Dean was able to open his eyes fully and focus on the room he was in.  It was a well apportioned chamber, familiar, but not with the same intimate familiarity as if he’d stayed in the room before.  The bed was large with a soft mattress and plenty of furs and blankets to keep the chill at bay even as the fire on the hearth died down.  Two wooden chests stood open under the oil-skin covered window, their contents spilling out haphazardly over the stone floor.  There was a table in the far corner covered with stacks of books, bits of curled parchment, and bundles of dried herbs.

 

Upon wiggling to free his arms from the mountain of covers he was buried under, he realized that one of the furs down by his feet was still attached to the animal that wore it.  As soon as the beast realized Dean was awake, it shuffled on its belly up to the head of the bed to bathe his face with its long pink tongue.

 

“Ugh.” He jerked his head back away from the onslaught of dog breath, momentarily making the room spin.  He weakly shoved at the shaggy white coat whining and wriggling over him.  “Get off, monster.”

 

“Chevy, down,” came a cool command from the doorway.

 

The massive direwolf launched one final, brief attack to Dean’s rough jaw with its tongue before jumping off the bed and loping across the room to the man at the door.

 

“Go lie with Lemuel.”

 

Dean watched his savior give the animal a fond pat to its big head before closing the door and crossing the room.

 

“Cas,” he breathed softly, scarcely believing that this wasn’t just a dream that would shortly be plunged into a nightmare of gore and destruction.

 

The dark-haired Northerner smiled as he set a laden tray on the stand next to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress.  He reached over to cup Dean’s face, checking for signs of fever, before sliding his hands down to his neck to feel the strength of his pulse.  He rested his palm over Dean’s chest, measuring the rate and depth of his breathing.

 

“How do you feel?”  Castiel asked as he turned to busy himself with mixing a pouch of herbs into a bowl of thick porridge.

 

"Better, I suppose," he wheezed, struggling to sit up. 

 

Castiel abandoned the food in favor of helping him into a somewhat comfortable upright position, propped up with numerous pillows. 

 

Once he was seated, he tilted his head back, closing his eyes to concentrate on regaining his breath.  When he opened them again, Castiel was watching him, concern filling his dark eyes.  Dean gave him a small grin. “Lung sickness couldn’t kill me when I was seven,” he paused to cough, “I doubt it can kill me now.”

 

Castiel sighed as he leaned over to lift the lid off of a small pot on the tray of food.  He spooned out a dollop of dark amber-colored honey and drizzled it over the herbed porridge before handing the spoon and bowl out for Dean to take.

 

The wooden utensil was easily three times as heavy as it should have been.  Dean was thankful that the porridge stuck fast to the spoon, as badly as his hand was shaking.  He managed a half-dozen bites on his own before sheepishly handing the spoon back to Castiel.  There was no sign of pity during the exchange, only gladness when Dean opened his mouth for another spoonful.

 

When the bowl was scraped clean and Castiel had rewarded Dean with an extra spoonful of honey after enduring an awful tincture of pleurisy root, wild cherry, and other things Dean had never heard of before, Castiel helped settle him back under the covers.  “There are things we need to discuss, but for now, just rest.”

 

Dean closed his eyes as Castiel leaned over him, pressing a light kiss to his forehead.  He wrapped his fingers around the other man’s wrist. “Stay with me?”

 

Castiel nodded with a soft smile before stretching out on top of the covers.  Dean curled up into his side before falling into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo...I couldn't find an Enochian translation, so I'm using Gaelic instead. :)
> 
> mo ghealach - my moon  
> mo ghrian - my sun


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a minor changes to the previous chapter.
> 
> Lawrence is the land the Winchesters rule over (the Winchesters of Lawrence, like the Starks of Winterfell).
> 
> From "They couldn’t take everything away from him, not while he was stubbornly holding onto the little ray of sunshine that had come into his life just a few years ago." to "They couldn’t take everything away from him, not while he was stubbornly holding onto the little ray of sunshine that had come into his life when he was just seven and serving as a page to his grandmother Deanna." Wanted Dean and Cas to have known each other for much longer.
> 
> Also fixed the color of Chevy's coat. It was white in the first chapter and I inadvertently made it black in the second chapter. Oops. The big puppy is white.

For two days, Dean did little more than sleep as his body fought off the last lingering bit of illness.  He woke up long enough at mealtimes to eat whatever Castiel offered, each passing meal bringing heartier and heartier fare once Castiel was assured of what his stomach could handle.  The food was simple, thick boiled oats with honey for breakfast and savory stews with meat and vegetables for the noon and evening meals, seasoned with the best herbs to help his recovery.  It was food fit for a grand feast day compared to what he had been eating for the past few years while on constant move with the Northern armies.

 

The gentle shuffling of someone else in the room was what finally woke him after a blessedly dreamless, full-night’s sleep.  Upon waking, he found that he didn’t immediately want to go back to sleep as he had for nearly a week.  Blinking the sand from his eyes, he lifted his head from the pillow and was surprised to see a woman’s figure bent over the hearth, trying to coax the dying embers back to life with an iron poker.  In his moments of wakefulness over the past few days, he could only remember ever seeing Castiel in the room with him.

 

He gave a gentle cough both to clear his throat and to alert the woman that he was awake as he pushed himself upright against the mounds of pillows propped along the headboard.  His eyes widened slightly when the woman turned, dusting off her hands after she set the poker back in its stand.

 

“I was hoping you’d wake up before Castiel returned.”  A gentle smile curved her mouth, causing very fine lines to appear in the corners of her gray-blue eyes.  A single, dark brown braid fell over her right shoulder down to her hip.

 

“Your Highness,” he started, voice rough from days of coughing, as he sat up higher on the bed to give his best attempt at a seated bow.

 

Her smile saddened slightly.  “I’m afraid I no longer hold that title.”

 

Dean internally bemoaned his sluggish mind.  Of course, Castiel’s father the king had died of a sudden illness over two years ago and his eldest brother by his father’s first marriage had inherited the throne.  Because she was of common birth, Her Royal Highness the Princess Consort became Lady Naomi Talley the moment her husband took his last breath.  She was still dressed in the somber colors of mourning, and Dean suspected she would grieve quietly for the rest of her days.

 

Brightening again, she waved away his apologetic grimace.  “There is no longer a need for formality between us.  I am hardly your equal now, much less your superior.”

 

He nodded as he reached for the cup of water on the stand by the bed, not trusting his voice until he could soothe his dry throat with drink. 

 

Naomi reached out to scoot the cup closer to his fingers.  “How are you feeling?”

 

“Less like dying,” he rasped after he drained the cup, wiping his lips dry with the back of his hand.  He waited patiently for her to refill it from the pitcher before asking, “Where’s Cas?”

 

“I made him take breakfast in the hall with Samandriel.  I wanted a chance to speak with you privately.”  After placing the pitcher back on the table, she settled comfortably in the straight-backed chair by the bed with her hands folded demurely in her lap.  Her expression turned steely as she took a breath.  “I believed my son when he said that you did not want to send him away.  However, I hope that that wasn’t something you made him believe just so that he would go.  If you are going to break his heart, there will be nothing I can do to defend you from the wrath of his brothers.  They may owe no loyalty to me, but they are fiercely protective of Castiel and Samandriel.”

 

Dean ran his thumb along the rim of the cup.  Sending Castiel away had been both the easiest and hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.  The decision itself had been easy; there had been no doubt in his mind that his newly married, newly pregnant husband needed to be sent as far away from the battlefield as possible.  There were healers and physicians aplenty to tend to their wounded; Castiel's skills, while valued, were not needed badly enough to risk his life and wellbeing.  But, watching Cas grow smaller and smaller in the back of an empty supply cart heading north with Judah plodding along behind it had made his soul split in half, especially when he had made Castiel promise to send no word of his arrival back home and no word of their child. 

 

At the time they parted, the extent of their relationship was known by only a trio of highly trusted people – Maester Murphy who performed the clandestine wedding and Bobby and Benny who stood witness.  Castiel vowed to not reveal anything to his family unless he received word that Dean had died (though Dean suspected Naomi had guessed the true nature of their friendship at least a year before they were married, judging from the tone of her letters, which Cas usually read aloud to him by the fire outside their tent on quiet evenings).  The secrecy and lack of communication were necessary for making sure that their enemies could not use one of them for leverage against the other.

 

Now that he was as good as dead to those who had taken nearly everything from him, Dean no longer saw the need withhold the truth.  He unbuttoned the left cuff of his shirt and tugged the sleeve back.  Tattooed in dark blue ink against the thin skin of his wrist was Castiel’s name in Old Enochian script.  Most people from south of The Wall wouldn’t understand the significance, which was the only way Dean would agree to risk such a mark.

 

Naomi reached out with delicate fingers to trace the lines and curls making up her son’s name, her eyes watering as a smile grew on her face.  She pulled back the long flowing sleeve of her robe, revealing the former king’s name tattooed on her own left wrist.  It was an old tradition that had fallen out of favor with the nobility centuries ago, when divorce and infidelity became commonplace, but many smallfolk could be found with the name of their soulmate branded upon their left wrist.  In honor of his mother’s roots, Castiel had suggested the ritual as part of their marriage ceremony.

 

The former princess consort stood and leaned over Dean, placing a soft kiss upon his forehead.  “You are welcome here, Dean Winchester, as a son of my house, however humble it may be.”

 

Dean reached out, taking her hand and pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.  “Thank you for your hospitality, my lady, and for your blessing.”

 

She squeezed his hand gently.  “I shall go tell Castiel that you are awake.  I believe he will be very anxious to speak with you now that you are feeling better.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! Two chapters in one night! I was inspired! 
> 
> This whole chapter happens in the past.

It was a great honor to be attended to by Missouri Mosely.  She was the royal midwife and her services were reserved solely for the immediate royal family, for the children and children of the children who could one day ascend to the Throne of Grace.  In all her many years, she had only ever delivered two children who were not in the line of succession and she was about to deliver her third.

 

In the very back of his mind, Castiel was aware of the privilege that was being bestowed upon him, to have the royal midwife kneeling between his spread legs, massaging his bare thighs with her strong, rose oil coated hands, and murmuring soft words of encouragement to him.  But at the moment, the pressure building in his belly was just too terrible for him to care.

 

When the pain finally released him, he collapsed back against his mother's chest, panting.  Naomi dabbed at his sweaty brow with a cloth soaked in cool lavender water. 

 

“You are doing well, _daor amháin_ ,” she said softly against his ear.

 

He shifted uncomfortably on the hard, crescent-shaped birthing stool, upon which generations of kings and princes had been born, arching his back in an attempt to relieve a painful spasm running along his flanks.  His mother settled her hands at his waist and pressed her thumbs firmly along his lower spine.  He sighed deeply as the cramp eased under her ministrations.

 

Slick fingers pressed up inside his body and felt around intrusively.  Missouri frowned slightly.  “There’s some swellin’ on the top of the cervix.”

 

“Is that bad?” Castiel asked, fear of the unknown sneaking up on him and making his breath catch in his throat.  The discomfort of being poked and prodded was momentarily forgotten.

 

The midwife’s face softened and she patted his knee gently.  “Not bad at all.  We’re just gonna need to do a little work to help it along.”

 

His mother’s arms slid around his middle, rubbing soothing circles along the sides of his swollen stomach.  He closed his eyes, resting his head back against her shoulder, and tried to imagine she was someone else, but the chest pressing into his back was too soft and the hands on his belly were too small.  A single tear streaked down his cheek, mingling with the beads of sweat that had already returned to his recently washed face.

 

Missouri shifted on her knees for a better angle.  “With the next couple of pains, push against my fingers.”

 

There was hardly a pause for breath between her words and the tightening of his abdomen.  He widened his thighs and bore down against the fingers pushing against something deep in his body.  Sharp, sudden pain shot through his body like lightning and he cried out, cutting off his push immediately.

 

The midwife tutted softly.  “Almost got it.  Again, Castiel.”

 

He was afraid.  If it hurt that badly just to push against her fingers, how much worse was it going to be when his body was stretching around the bulk of the child?  He breathed hard and quick, his heart pounding fast in his chest.

 

The contraction built in strength until he was wailing, drowning out Missouri’s firm commands to keep pushing.  In that moment, he wanted Dean like never before.  He could die peacefully with Dean there.  Dean would take away his pain.  Dean would make everything better. 

 

Dean…Dean…Dean… 

 

He hated Dean.  Dean had sent him away.   Dean had planted his seed inside of him and sent him back to his mother like a scolded child, alone and abandoned.   Dean was the cause of his pain and suffering, of the alien thing that had taken over his body, of the months of nausea and helplessness.  He hoped he never saw Dean Winchester’s beautiful smirk ever again!

 

The pain gave way to a fearsome rage that purpled Castiel’s cheeks and had him bearing down hard once again.

 

Missouri smiled, the tension in her face finally relaxing.  “Good, good.  There’s nothing in the way of this child comin’ in the world now.  You just rest for a while.”

 

The two women helped him onto the bed, positioning his limp, nearly uncooperative body on his left side.  His anger had faded almost instantly with Missouri’s praise, exhaustion taking its place.  He hid his face in a pillow giving himself over to tears.  He’d been in labor for the better part of two days and while he was closer to the end, it still felt like the end would never come.

 

He traced his fingers over the leather cuff fastened around his left wrist.  His mother had tried to convince him to take it off, that it would only annoy him while he labored, but he refused.  He would not look upon the tattoo on his skin until Dean returned to him and they could show off their eternal bond to the whole world, though some small part of him wanted to rip it off and throw it across the room.

 

In the lull between contractions, Castiel ran his hand over the swell of his belly.  Part of the child, a knee or maybe a foot, pressed outward near the top of his womb in its confined space, bumping against his fingers.  This would most likely be the last he would feel his little one kicking from inside his body.  The moment was strangely bittersweet.

 

Just as he was about to dose off, he felt the telltale twinges of his abdomen muscles beginning to tighten again.  This time there was a definite and sudden shift low in his pelvis.  He pulled his knees up close to the bottom of his stomach and gave into the overwhelming urge to push.  He was amazed to find that this time pushing came with a welcomed relief.

 

With a grunt, he alerted his mother and the midwife of what was happening.  In a flurry of activity, Missouri and Naomi rolled him onto his back and pulled back his legs.  Missouri pushed the bottom of his long shirt up over his belly.

 

She pursed her lips together in a smile.  “Let’s get you back on the stool.  I’ll wager you one of Mistress Elizabeth’s pies that you’ll have this baby out in five pushes or less.”

 

Gods above, he hoped so.  He didn’t know how much longer he could last.

 

With his mother at his back and Missouri again kneeling on the floor between his legs, he offered up a quick prayer for the health and safety of his child and his husband, hoping they would find each other should something happen to him.

 

“Don’t think like that, boy,” Missouri chided gently, reading him as easily as a printed page.  “I ain’t lost a baby, a mother, or a father yet.”

 

In a rush of emotion, he reached out, grabbing her hand tightly.  “Thank you, Missouri.  Thank you.”

 

“I wouldna trusted anybody else to be here for you,” she said, squeezing back.

 

Over his shoulder, he heard his mother sniffle softly as she pressed a kiss into his damp hair.

 

“Okay, _ma mhuirnín_ , when you feel the urge, give it all you’ve got.  It’ll be over soon.”

 

 _Over soon_.  Her words echoed in his brain.  He was having a baby.  He was about to bring forth into the world a new child who would be dependent upon him for everything – for love and affection, for nourishment of its soul and body, for survival.  Nine months wasn’t nearly long enough to prepare, to learn all that there was to learn about becoming a parent.  He wasn’t ready.  He’d never be ready, not without Dean. 

 

Before the panic could sink its claws into him, a wave of tremendous pressure surged down through his hips.  His body contracted in on itself and he pushed hard.  He was vaguely aware of Missouri’s calm instructions and his mother’s soft coaching.

 

“Good, good.  Here’s the head.”

 

He felt Missouri’s hand gently pressing back against the bulge stretching him open as he bared down.  The stretch burned with the heat of a thousand fires.

 

“You’re doing so good.  Keep going.”

 

With a growl, he pulled every single muscle in his body tight into his core.  He felt his flesh give way as the baby’s head popped out of his body with a grotesque squelch as the fluid built up behind it rushed out and splashed onto the stone floor at his feet.

 

“Ok, stop, stop,” the midwife called urgently.  “Don’t push.”

 

Castiel panted furiously.  He’d gotten this far, he wasn’t about to stop.

 

“The cord’s wrapped tight around the neck.  Just need to you hold on while I ease it loose and over the baby’s head,” she said with a forced calm.

 

He held himself as still as possible, feeling her hands working gently against him, fingers sliding underneath something still partially inside of his body.  The panic crept back.  Babies died when they became entangled in their umbilical cords.  Had his child already died?  Was he giving birth to something that was going to be immediately taken away and buried?

 

“There we go.  Give me a little push.  Gentle,” she instructed, the tone of her voice giving no hint as to what was wrong with his child.

 

His body complied with her command, but his mind was already sinking into despair.  He’d lost the baby.  He’d killed Dean’s child, a child that had made his green eyes light up bright when it was barely more than a tiny flutter under the soft swell of Castiel’s belly.  He would have nothing more than a grave marker to show Dean when he returned.  The golden light would fade from Dean’s eyes and love would leave his broken heart. 

 

He was a failure.

 

“Give me your hands, Castiel,” Missouri said softly.

 

He blindly reached out and let her guide his hands down under the curve of his abdomen, between his legs, where she hooked his fingers under something slippery and supple.

 

“Ok, one more big push,” the midwife coaxed.

 

The world slowed down.  Seconds stretched out into infinite minutes as he felt the pressure in his pelvis drop.  He closed his eyes, not wanting to witness the awfulness of pulling a dead child from his own body.

 

Suddenly there was a warm, wet weight laying against his bare belly.  He kept his eyes shut, curling around the body of his baby, clutching it tightly to his chest.  He sobbed out his heartache.

 

Until he heard a soft hiccup.

 

His head jerked up, his eyes opening in shock as Missouri thrust a rough towel into his hand.

 

“C’mon, daddy, let’s rough the boy up a little bit to get him breathing.”

 

His hands followed through with her instructions until the baby let loose a cranky squall, announcing his unhappy arrival into the world.

 

“You’re alive,” he said in exhausted wonder to the child squirming in his arms.  “You’re alive.  You’re a boy and you’re alive.”

 

“Oh, _mo chroí_ , he’s beautiful!” Naomi exclaimed through happy tears.

 

“Dean, our son’s alive,” Castiel murmured in disbelief against the baby’s temple.

 

He missed the look that passed between his mother and Missouri at his words.

 

The midwife continued her work unnoticed while the new father and grandmother marveled over ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes, and the swirl of blond hair covering the baby’s crown.  After the placenta had been delivered, she bathed between Castiel’s legs, packed rags tightly against his body, and helped him back into bed before turning her attention to the little one.  After tying off and cutting the cord, she gave the infant a bath in warmed water and swaddled him tightly.

 

Missouri held the new baby against her bosom, as Naomi fussed over Castiel.  The baby was probably the most handsome little lad she’d ever seen, even more beautiful than she remembered Castiel in all his dark-haired, blueberry-eyed cuteness 25 years ago.  When Castiel’s eyes sought her out, she smiled to him and laid the baby in his arms.

 

“What’s his name?” she asked.

 

“Lemuel,” he replied with a dazed smile as he gazed down at the boy who was hungrily rooting against his chest.

 

“Lemuel Snow?”

 

“No,” he said softly, happier than he had been in nearly a year.  “Lemuel Winchester.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daor amháin = dear one
> 
> ma mhuirnín = sweetheart
> 
> mo chroí = my heart


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made some minor edits here and there to past chapters because I'm making up things as I go along and sometimes old stuff doesn't quite fit with new stuff. None of it is too major.
> 
> I did make it a little clearer in the last chapter that Missouri delivered Castiel. And, just in case I don't get to it in the story (I might forget), because the marriage between Naomi and the Northern King was morganatic, Castiel and Samandriel are not in the line of succession.

Dean watched Naomi cross the room and open the door just in time to let in Castiel who carried a tray full of food.  They exchanged a few quiet words over the threshold

 

He swiped a heavy hand down his face, his breath hitching in his chest in a way that had nothing to do with the weakness of his lungs.  He and Cas had a lot to talk about, good and bad.  Since he arrived, their conversations had been brief and limited to how Dean was feeling and if he needed anything.  He had no idea how much news had made its way north of The Wall, if Castiel might know of anything that had happened over the last couple of weeks.

 

Mother and son soon parted and Castiel came to the side of the bed, setting the breakfast tray on the stand.  There was the usual bowl of porridge and crock of honey as well as a small loaf of dark bread, a plate of pale yellow butter and bright orange cheese.  Dean had lost a nearly three stones worth of weight since they’d last been together and Castiel was determined to fatten him up again.

 

“Good morning, Dean,” he said holding out the bowl.

 

“Mornin’, Cas.”  He took the offering and stirred in the swirls of honey sitting on top of the thick gruel.

 

“I’ll talk while you eat.”  He waited until Dean gave a hesitant nod before sitting in the chair by the bed and continuing.  “We have a son.”

 

Dean perked up, smiling a bright happy smile.  The gesture felt oddly foreign on his face.  “Is he ok?”

 

“He’s perfect,” Castiel remarked with a proud and fond smile of his own.  “He’ll be two in a few months.  Looks like you.  Loves horses.  Has absolutely no fear of anything.”

 

Dean chuckled.  The knot in his chest that he’d been living with ever since the day Cas left the battlefield untangled, leaving him feeling almost giddy with relief.  “What’s his name?” 

 

“Lemuel.”

 

"And, are you ok?”  Dean wasn’t ignorant of the perils of childbirth.  His father’s mistress had succumbed to childbed fever days after Adam was born and his mother had been unable to get pregnant again after Sam’s birth.

 

“I’m fine,” he replied with a look that spoke of truth.  He wasn’t brushing off poor health in an attempt to ease Dean’s worries; he was healthy and happy, just as Dean hoped he would be.

 

“Does anybody know…?” Dean cast his eyes down to the bowl of boiled oats, idly drawing shapes in the lumpy mush. 

 

“My mother and Missouri.”  He lifted the lid from the pot of tea, unleashing a curl of fragrant steam as he poured the liquid into one of the two mugs on the tray before taking a sip.  “I’m sure my brothers have a good idea, though they have not said anything about it.”

 

“So, he’s a Snow?”  Dean lifted his eyes and looked up at Castiel.  Nearly three years was a long time to be parted.  Though they were officially married, Dean knew that it would be easy enough for Castiel to pretend it had never happened since the witnesses were most likely dead.  His son was probably safer recognized as a bastard.

 

“No, I haven’t had his birth officially registered yet.”  Castiel placed his mug back on the tray before clasping his hands together in his lap.  He rubbed his thumb over the leather cuff around his left wrist.  “I was waiting for you to come back so he could be claimed as a Winchester.”

 

Dean’s smile dimmed as he set his breakfast on the table by the bed, his appetite suddenly gone.  “That’s a dangerous name for a kid to have.”

 

“Not when he’d have the armies of the Seven Houses of the North to protect him.”  Castiel moved from the chair to the edge of the bed and took Dean’s hand between his.  “Michael’s called a summit to discuss how to deal with the threat from the South.  He won’t turn a blind eye to what’s going on just beyond our border.”

 

Dean squeezed Castiel’s hand hard, holding onto it like the lifeline it was.  He blinked rapidly against the heavy tears building up against his lashes.  “They’re all gone, Cas.”

 

Between his flight from the battlefield and his days of sickness, he hadn’t had time to process the loss.  Now, sorrow pressed relentlessly against his chest, making it hard to breathe.  His younger brothers were dead.  Sam would never finish his studies at the Academy in King’s Landing and Adam would never grow up to gain his spurs as the knight he always wanted to be.  Dean would never again ride next to his father in battle or try to beat his mother at chess.  His home was a smoldering ruin of rubble; the smoke was thick in the air when he rode through Lawrence on his way to The Wall.  His army was destroyed, scores of men were dead in his name as he fought to wrench the Iron Throne from a mad man.  His name marked him as a traitor to the king his family had sworn fealty to generations ago.

 

He was too weak to do anything about it, too sick in spirit and in body to right the wrongs that had been done to his family and the people he’d sworn to protect.  All of Lawrence was at the mercy of Lucifer’s minions, ripe for being parceled out to the Talbots, Crowleys, and Romans whose lands bordered it to the south.  The Morning Star King now had a clear path to The Wall and the riches of the North.

 

He was barely aware of Castiel pulling him close and rubbing his hands over his back.   

 

“You are not alone, _mo ghrian_ ,” Castiel murmured softly against his ear.  “You need to eat and rest.  There are people waiting to see you, including a little boy who’s waited his whole life to meet you.  Just know that we will make things right again.  I swear this to you.”

 

Dean nodded half-heartedly, his grief exhausting what little strength he had regained.


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel did not allow Dean to wallow in his grief.  After a few minutes to recover, he pulled away and pressed the half-eaten bowl of porridge back into Dean’s hands, making him finish his full breakfast while telling him stories of Lemuel – his penchant for napping in weird places, his afternoon adventure in the kitchen one day several months ago that ended in a very bad tummy ache, his love of bundling up in his little cloak to go on rides with his father on Judah, his favorite past time of wrestling with Chevy.

 

The little boy was very obviously the apple of his father’s eye.  Dean had never before seen Castiel as happy as when he was talking about their son.  He could only imagine what it would be like to see the man interacting with Lemuel.  The promise of actually meeting his son, being able to hold him and see him with his own eyes, bolstered his appetite and soon he had scraped the bowl clean and left naught but crumbs on the plate that held the loaf of bread and wedge of cheese.

 

Castiel stepped out into the hallway to pass the tray of empty dishes off to a servant and to call for a tub and hot water.  Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper bath.  He’d been lucky to scrounge up a bucket and a clean rag to wipe himself down every few days while on the march or camped with the army.  Some days the best he could do was a splash of cold water on his gritty, sweat-streaked face. 

 

He groaned in pure ecstasy when Castiel helped him lower himself into the big wooden tub.  It wasn’t quite long enough to fully stretch out his legs, but it was deep enough so that the water came up over his bent knees.  The warm water soothed his tender, achy muscles and stiff joints, helping to leech away the soreness lingering from his illness.

 

“I thought it’d be a while yet before I’d hear you make those sounds again,” Castiel said with a smirk as he knelt down behind Dean and began to scrub at his shoulders with a soapy sponge.

 

Dean chuckled softly, rolling his head from one side to the other as the sponge passed over the back of his neck.  Below the water’s surface, he felt his cock twitch in response to Castiel’s touch on his wet, bare skin.  “Wouldn’t you like to join me?”

 

“I’d like to, but I’ve worked too hard to let you overexert yourself now.”  He nudged Dean to lean forward so he could wash his back.  After pressing a longing kiss to one freckled shoulder, he handed the sponge and bowl of soap over to Dean to finish bathing.

 

As he scrubbed himself clean and pointedly ignored his growing erection, Dean watched Castiel stand and cross the room to plunder through one of the open trunks.  “Where are we?”

 

“Bohnam Hall,” he replied as he pulled out a shirt, overtunic, and pants from the trunk.  “My mother moved out of the palace shortly before my brother’s coronation.  She and Queen Lilith do not get along, but the rest of the royal family was more than happy to have her here.”

 

The royal family was quite large and was housed in two major residences in Eden’s capital city.  The immediate blood family of the reigning king lived at the palace, while other relatives had the privilege to keep quarters at Bohnam Hall.  Dean remembered staying with Castiel’s cousins at Bohnam Hall on a visit to Eden when they were younger and didn’t want to bother with the pomp of the royal court.

 

Dean soaped up his hair, digging his fingernails into his scalp.  “Who all lives here now?”

 

“Uncle Uriel and Aunt Hester, Anael, Hael, Balthazar, and Inias are still here.  Samandriel splits his time between here and the Lyceum.  He’s on break between terms right now.  Gabriel moved in last year after a rather epic fight with Lilith.  Michael was very upset with her, but Gabriel took the high road to keep the peace and left the palace.  I think Gabe is much happier here.  He was very upset when Mother was forced to leave.”

 

Naomi had been the royal princes’ nurse when they were small children and had spent most of her life in service at the royal palace before the king became enamored with her and decided to marry her.  She was held in high regard by her stepchildren, especially Gabriel who never knew his own mother as she died before he reached his first birthday.

 

Dean knew there would be a dozen or more other aunts, uncles, and cousins in residence in the sprawling manor.  Most had primary homes elsewhere in Eden and only use their apartments in the hall during the court season or on special occasions.  He wondered how permanent his own stay at Bonham Hall would be and knew he could not expect a better place to be under current circumstances.

 

Castiel stood at the side of the tub with a thick towel.  “Come out before the water chills.”

 

Dean dunked his head under the water to rinse off the last of the soap before standing on shaky legs and letting Castiel help him out of the tub and over to the edge the bed to be dried off.  He closed his eyes as Castiel took another towel, roughly rubbing over his wet hair.  Castiel took a step back when he was finished, leaving the towel draped around Dean’s shoulders.  Dean opened his eyes again, looking up at the man standing before him with a content smile curving his mouth.

 

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you sitting there,” Castiel said softly, cupping his hands around Dean’s jaw before bending down to press his lips to Dean’s.  His kiss was gentle, but a little desperate, as though he still didn’t quite believe that Dean was real and didn’t want to shatter the illusion.  “We’d gotten word of what happened at the wedding only a day before the patrol found you, and I just knew I’d lost you.  When they finally brought you to me, I wouldn’t leave your side.  I was too scared that I’d lose you again."

 

Dean pulled him into his lap.  With their foreheads pressed together, he breathed softly against Castiel’s lips.  “Nothing will ever take me away from you again.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me a while to get this next chapter out. The last month has been a mess of getting sick, moving offices at work, being busy at work, going to gigs and rehearsals, and then being unable to shake off general laziness in my downtime. :) The next few weeks don't look any better. My mom's coming up next weekend, then I have two weeks worth of community musical to deal with starting on June 2.
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos! I'm glad people like this story. Don't worry. I haven't abandoned any of my other WIPs. As soon as I get ideas, I'll update them. :)

Dean had never been this nervous.

 

Ever. 

 

He'd ridden into battle for the first time when he was seventeen, charging headfirst into a throng of enemy soldiers with all the cockiness of a teenager who thought Death couldn't touch him.  He'd scurried along the crumbling battlements of the castle in Lebanon on a dare from his cousin Christian when he was eight and not once gave thought to tumbling over the wall, down to the rocky ground below.  His hand had been steady as steel when Maester Murphy bound it to Castiel’s with a length of tan and blue tartan in the dark wood on the outskirts of the battlefield nearly three years ago.

 

He tried to excuse the flutter in his stomach and the fine tremble in his limbs as nothing more than weakness from being sick in bed for the past fortnight, but couldn’t fool himself.

 

“Wait,” Dean said softly as his grip tightened on the inside of Castiel’s elbow.  They paused in the hallway outside a closed door.  Castiel looked at him curiously, reaching up to rest his hand on the back of the one cradled in his elbow.

 

“Will he…will he know who I am?”

 

“He knows he has another father, but I have not told him your name.  Little mouths are impossible to control.”  Castiel paused with a sigh and a glance heavenward.  Dean knew there had to be a story there, but didn’t press him further.  “He knows his father is a great warrior and a good man.  You are the hero of his bedtime stories though I may have over exaggerated your acts of heroism.  If he asks, you did indeed slay the Great Red Dragon of Aquaria,” Castiel said with a small grin as he leaned in closer.

 

Dean smiled.  “If I remember correctly, the Great Red Dragon was a three-foot long red-bellied water snake that wandered too closely to where the horses were tied up for the night.”

 

“Yes, and Impala and Judah were the damsels in distress that you rescued,” Castiel said with a nod.

 

He laughed and the knot of tension in his belly released. 

 

Before the nervousness could return, Castiel pushed open the door.  Dean was nearly overwhelmed by the sight within the room, though not in the way he thought he would be. 

 

The chamber was situated on the eastern side of the castle and as such was flooded with bright mid-morning light bouncing off the whitewashed stone walls.  A dozen or so children filled the room with noise and activity.  He hardly knew where to look. 

 

Two little boys, near five years old, were having a jousting match on stick horses with stubby wooden lances along the length of the room.  A trio of girls, about the same age as the boys, were keeping watch over a ward of dolls tucked into tiny beds on the other side of the room, far away from the impromptu tourney.  An older girl of about ten was perched on the window seat with a book in one hand and a half-eaten apple in the other.  Two more boys and a girl, all younger than the others, were sitting on a rug by the fire stacking colorful blocks as high as they possibly could before clapping with delight when their tower fell with a clatter. A nurse ensconced in a chair flanked by two cradles hummed softly as she rocked an infant back to sleep.  A pair of tiny fists could be seen flailing above the edge of one of the cradles. 

 

One of the little boys on the rug looked up when the door opened.  His mouth split into a wide toothy grin as he hastily hopped up from the floor, wobbling just a moment on his chubby legs before dashing across the room and straight into Castiel’s knees.

 

“Papa!”

 

Dean had never before seen Castiel’s face light up quite like it did when he reached down to scoop up their son and give him a toss into the air.  The boy shrieked happily causing the nurse to cast a disapproving glare in their direction when the sleeping baby in her arms woke up with a wail.  Castiel gave the woman a sheepish look as he settled Lemuel at his hip and guided Dean back out into the hallway.

 

Dean couldn’t help but stare at the little boy who clung to Castiel’s shoulder and stared boldly back at him.  The toddler had a mess of wheat colored hair on top of his head that was just long enough to start curling up around his ears and the nape of his neck, soul-piercing blue eyes framed by long lashes, and rosy, round cheeks.  He squinted in such a way that no one could doubt he was Castiel’s child, but there was enough bold, brash Winchester in his bearing that anyone who knew what to look for could easily see. 

 

The boy pointed at Dean, but turned his eyes up to Castiel.  “Whosat?”

 

“Do you remember the story I told you last night before you went to sleep?” he replied as they walked down the corridor, heading back to Naomi’s chambers.

 

Lemuel nodded, solemnly.  “The _Gaiscíoch_ fought the bear.”

 

“Who is the _Gaiscíoch_?”

 

“ _M’athair_.”  The boy looked back to Dean and blinked.

 

Dean could see the gears working in the little head and then the thoughts finally coming together as his eyes got big.

 

“ _M’athair…_ ” he repeated softly, in awe.  “You fought the bear?”

 

Dean barely had time to react before Lemuel suddenly tipped sideways out of Castiel’s arms in an attempt to reach him, but he caught the boy in time to keep him from falling.  He nearly stumbled with the swift realization that he was holding his son.  His little boy was warm and soft tucked up tight against his chest.  This was his flesh and blood, the child he’d dreamed about often over the last two years, looking up at him in undisguised wonder.

 

“D'ya kill it?” Lemuel asked with wide blue eyes.

 

Dean looked at Castiel in askance over the top of the boy’s head.  He certainly hadn’t ever fought a bear before.  The man mouthed the word _Benny_ and Dean laughed, shaking his head.  “No.  He was a very good friend.” 

 

“Oh,” he sighed, clearly disappointed that his father hadn’t conquered the great beast. 

 

With each passing step the boy grew heavier and heavier in Dean’s arms, but he was determined to hold his son close, to feel the softness of his little body and to smell the still-sweet baby scent of him, as long as possible.  Thankfully, it didn’t take them long to reach the apartment Castiel shared with his mother and younger brother. 

 

Lemuel wiggled to get down as soon as they crossed the threshold into Castiel’s room.  After being set down on the floor, the boy reached up to tug on the hem of Dean’s tunic.

 

Dean slowly knelt down to get on the boy’s level and held absolutely motionless as Lemuel placed his little hands on either side of his father’s face.  The boy grinned at him and leaned forward to place a wet smack on his stubbled cheek.  “Love Da.”

 

Dean felt his heart swell as he pulled his son in close for a tight hug and murmured against his silky soft hair, “I love you too, Lemmy.”

 

“Nap time,” Castiel said quietly after giving father and son a moment together.  “For both of you.”

 

He laughed out at the twin rebellious looks thrown his way.  “If you’re both good and lay down for a while, then maybe we’ll go see the horses when you wake up.”

 

“C’mon!” Lemuel said grabbing Dean’s hand and pulling him as hard as he could towards the big bed. 

 

“Is that all it takes?  Promise of a horse?” Dean asked as little hands pushed at his thighs, urging him to sit before those same little hands tried to take on the mountainous task of pulling off his boots.

 

Castiel hefted their son up from the floor and tossed him into the middle of the bed.  The boy giggled as he bounced amongst the blankets and furs.  “He’d take a dozen baths on the promise of going to the stables.”

 

Dean smiled as he toed off his boots.  “He’s a Winchester through and through then.”

 

“That he is,” Castiel said with a smile.

 

As soon as Dean settled against the pillows, Lemuel instantly attached himself like a limpet to his side, snuggling close with droopy eyes.  He roused momentarily to lift his head.  “Chevy?”

 

Castiel whistled and the big direwolf padded in from the antechamber where he’d been dozing when they’d returned.  Chevy hopped up on the bed and laid down, pressing his nose into the toddler’s back.

 

Dean tsked softly.  “You’ve turned him into a damned housecat.”

 

“Says the man who made me share a sleeping roll with him _and_ the mutt for an entire winter.”

 

“Yeah, well.  It was cold and he’s warmer than a hearthstone.”

 

“Shh!” the toddler interrupted sleepily.  “Faster asleep, faster horses.”

 

“Alright, alright.”  Castiel chuckled and ran his fingers through Lemuel’s hair.  He turned to Dean.  “If you wake before I get back, just call for Hannah.  She’s out in the sitting room.”

 

“You’re not going to join us?”

 

“Tempting, but I have to speak to Gabriel before he heads to the palace.”  Castiel leaned down, pressing his lips firmly against Dean’s.  “Sleep well, _mo ghrian._ ”

 

After Castiel left, Dean let himself be lulled into slumber by the quiet, rhythmic breathing of his son and his wolf.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaiscíoch – warrior
> 
> M’athair – my father


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ret-con in Chapter 3 (because I make stuff up as I go along!): Castiel’s father died of a sudden illness instead of a lingering illness.

Dean pushed the burlap curtain of the window back a scant inch trying to get an idea of exactly which street the carriage was rattling down.  He would have much preferred riding Impala the short distance between Bonham Hall and the castle, but he  _was_ a dead man after all, and the North would have little advantage if word was leaked that he was indeed alive.  So, he was hidden away in a plain wagon with its windows shielded from view.

 

At least he had Castiel quietly tucked up against his side.  He rubbed his thumb against Cas’s upper arm, taking comfort in the feel of him while he could.  In a few moments, Dean would be standing before the heads of the Seven Houses of the North and High King Michael’s Small Council, giving them the final ammunition to go to war against the South.

 

The wagon clattered to a halt.  Castiel pushed open the door and descended the single step, surveying the area before motioning for Dean to follow.  Dean had just seconds to glance around.  They were at one of the kitchen entrances on the far western side of the castle, away from any of the main entry points.  He quickly fell in step behind Castiel as they began their trek through the maze of servants’ passages to get to the council chamber near the throne room in the middle of the palace. 

 

The corridors were strangely empty of activity.  Dean could only imagine what gossip was traveling amongst the servants as they wondered why they were being made to detour away from one of their main thoroughfares through the castle.

 

Castiel came to a stop in front of a solid wooden door where he gave a loud rhythmic knock. 

 

A deep voice on the other side of the door asked, “The king, the priest, or the rich man – who has the power?”

 

“The sellsword,” Castiel replied.

 

The lock clicked before the door was pushed open by a tall, dark-haired man in gleaming silver plated armor.  He stepped back from the open door allowing them to enter the room.  A dozen people were crammed around the paper strewn round table of the Small Council chamber.  Curious eyes turned to the new arrivals.

 

Before Dean had a chance to properly digest the scene in front of him, a flash of red knocked him back into the wall and the life was being squeezed from his still-recovering lungs.  People gasped and chairs scraped loudly against the stone floor.

 

“Dean!” came the soft voice muffled in his armpit as willowy arms wrapped even more tightly around his middle.

 

“Easy, Charlie,” Castiel admonished gently as he laid a hand on her narrow shoulder.

  
Dean bent his head to kiss the top of the Queen of Moondoor’s head.  She had been fostered at the castle in Lebanon with his grandmother when she was younger and had been the closest thing he’d ever had to a sister.  There were tears in her hazel eyes when she finally pulled back to look up at him, but she was smiling.

 

“They said you were dead,” she whispered.

 

The others in the room were suddenly crowding around them, all wanting to get their hands on Dean to assure themselves that he was actually there, living and breathing.  Lady Ellen and Ser Joanna of House Harvelle got to him first.

 

After Ellen pulled back from her lingering hug and let Jo take her place, she asked, “Is Bobby alive?”

 

Dean shook his head sadly as he squeezed Jo, tugging gently on her blonde braid.  “I don’t know.  He was one of the last people I saw before I left the battlefield.”

 

Over by the table Zachariah snorted, derisively.  He was the only person who had not risen to greet Dean, though it was hardly surprising.  The man had never been a supporter of the Winchesters.  He saw their switch in loyalty over a century ago as the ultimate betrayal, though Lawrence and Edhen remained close allies in trade and Lawrence served as a conduit for talks between the South and the North.

  
The chamber’s main door opened, interrupting the din of the room with King Michael’s entrance.  Gabriel followed along on his brother’s heel.  In an instant, Dean was struck by the difference he saw in these two men.  He had last seen them five years ago and, while they were both older than him, they had still been in the prime of their youth at the time.

 

Michael had always been a serious young man, calm and patient, kind, but firm in all of his interactions.  The past two years as king had aged him beyond his thirty-five years.  His dark hair was graying at the temples and he looked weary.  His father’s unexpected death just before the conflict in the South had started its northward trek left Michael to handle the threat of invasion on his own.  While Michael had been groomed in the ways of being king ever since he was a child, his father had not yet begun to transfer any of his duties over to his heir.  Everything had been dumped on Michael’s shoulders all at once.

 

Gabriel was in all ways his eldest brother’s complete opposite.  He was loud, boisterous, and got into the most trouble out of all of the royal children.  But now, he was subdued, his golden eyes hardened with determination and focus as he followed Michael into the council room.  The heavy, brass pin that denoted him as Hand of the King stood out against the russet fabric of his tunic.

 

"Is everyone here?” Michael asked as he headed towards the chair on the far side of the round table.

 

“Yes, sire,” replied the knight who had opened the door for Dean and Castiel.  Dean realized then that the man was Raphael, the brother born between Michael and Gabriel.

 

“Good,” Michael said with a nod as he sat in his chair indicating for everybody else to be seated.  He then turned to the dark-skinned Grand Maester sitting off to his side at the scribe’s table.  “Joshua, are you ready?”

 

“Yes, sire,” he replied as he dipped a brown and tan striped quill in the inkpot.

 

“We shall record attendance first.”  Michael stood from his seat.  “Michael of House Angeles, High King of Edhen.”

 

With Joshua’s pen scribbling in the background, one by one those present around the table stood and declared their names.

 

“Charlene of House Bradbury, Queen of Moondoor.”

 

“Jody of House Mills, Lady of the Falls.”

 

“Kevin of House Tran, Lord of the Veil.”

 

“Linda of House Tran, Mother of the Lord of the Veil.”

 

“Ellen of House Harvelle, Lady of Rhoade.”

 

“Ser Joanna Harvelle of Rhoade.”

 

“Kristina of House Chambers, Princess of Lee.”

 

“Garth of House Fitzgerald, Prince of Grant.”

 

"Zachariah of House Adler, Small Council member.”

 

“Anael of House Milton, Small Council member.”

 

“Raphael of House Angeles, High General of the Northern Armies, Small Council member.”

 

“Gabriel of House Angeles, Hand of the King.”

 

Michael turned his gaze to Dean, and with a small smile gestured to the seat to his left, which was immediately pulled back by a young page boy. 

 

Before sitting down, Dean cleared his throat and stated, “Dean of House Winchester…Lord of Lawrence.” 

 

It was the first time he declared himself as such, and it brought with it the pang of remembering the deaths of his father and grandfather at the hands of the Talbots.  He was brought out of his dark thoughts by the warmth of a hand pressing against his knee under the table.  Looking up, he saw that Castiel had taken the seat to his left.

 

Without further preamble, Michael began, “Lucifer’s armies are marching north.  Lebanon and the Singing Isles have already fallen.  Lawrence has been ravaged by Hellhounds sent out ahead of the army, and if it has not already fallen, then it will very soon.  Lucifer has his eyes set on Edhen.  If the Morningstar King takes Edhen, then he will have the North and the entire continent.”

 

Michael paused to rub his fingertips against his brow.  “There is no question of whether or not we go to war against Lucifer.  The question is do we shore up our defenses here and hope to hold him off or do we meet him head on before he can breach the Wall?”

 

Kevin was the first to speak up, “My full army is only a day’s march north of here.  We anticipated that the order would be given and had everything ready before my mother and I left for Edhen.”

 

“Good man,” Michael said with no small amount of relief in his voice.

 

“The Veil Guard has been on alert ever since Robert Roman took the Singing Isles.  We’ve been expecting to see their longboats on our shores for the last month.  I can call the reserves up and we can be stationed at the southwestern border by the end of the week,” Jody declared.

 

“Our fletchers have been working non-stop for the past fortnight to supply every archer in the North with enough arrows take down every single southern bastard twice over,” Jo said vehemently.

 

Garth leaned forward in his seat.  “We have 10,000 horses at the ready.”

 

“Moondoor’s Guild of Alchemists has offered their entire stockpile of wildfire.  They’ve stabilized their formula, so transport will be no issue.”  Charlie lifted up a small vial of glowing green liquid.

 

“All I need to do is light the signal fires and all of Lee will march south,” Krissy offered.  She may have been the youngest of the group, but she had one of the best trained civilian militias at her disposal. 

 

“Good, good,” Michael mused quietly as he stared down at the map spread out over the tabletop.  Gabriel had been placing wooden markers indicating the various garrisons of troops from all of the Northern Houses on the table as the discussion progressed and Raphael had been strategically moving them into place along the Wall at the rally point.  “We won’t wait for them to bring the fight to us.  We’ll push them back all the way to King’s Landing and liberate the areas they’ve already conquered.  Dean, is there anything you can tell us about the southern armies?”

 

“They’re ruthless,” he said, grinding his teeth.  “They don’t fight honorably.  The best way to fight them will be to throw everything we have at them all at once.  Ride fast and hard to hit them before they know what’s coming.  They were starting to get sloppy in the last days of battle before…,” Dean swallowed harshly before continuing, “…before the wedding.  But by then, there were already too few of us left to take advantage of it.

 

“Our biggest issue will be supplies.  There is nothing but scorched earth south of Lawrence.  By now, I imagine whatever crops were still in the fields in Lawrence are ash now.  Whole old-growth forests were put to the torch on the border between Lawrence and Lebanon.  Crowley has the river dammed up somewhere east of Canisbay.  We’ll need to cart down enough supplies for the armies because there are none to be found along the way.  It might get better once we’ve crossed from Lebanon into Purgatory, but that’s not to say they won’t light fire to their own farms in retreat.”

 

Michael hummed in thought.  “We’ll open the storehouses and larders.  Everything that can be spared will be sent south.”

 

They hashed out logistics over the next several hours, sending knights and pages scurrying throughout the city to deliver orders and fetch reports from stewards and quartermasters.  Ravens and pigeons took to the skies with messages back home from the heads of the northern houses.

 

In the small hours of the morning, as the group’s nervous energy was just beginning to wane and Michael was calling for a wind down to the session so they could all get some sleep before beginning final preparations to march south, one of the King’s Guard was admitted into the chamber.

 

“Sire!”  The knight paused for a quick bow.  “There is a group from south of the Wall begging for an audience.”

 

Michael scowled.  “It is past midnight.  The city gate has been closed to travelers for hours.  Who admitted them?”

 

“Ser Balthazar, your majesty.”

 

Michael’s scowl softened into a concerned frown as he glanced around the room.  “Fine.  Bring them here.”  
  
“Yes, sire.”  The knight bid another hasty bow before scurrying from the doorway.

 

The room sat in tired, tense quiet until the door opened several minutes later and a bedraggled group of soldiers filed in.

 

It wasn’t until the last of the group, a huge, lumbering beast of a man ducked his head under the doorframe that anybody recognized the group.

 

Rising from the table, Ellen cried out, “Bobby!” and flung herself into her husband’s open arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have plans to make a map of this world. I think it needs one. :)


End file.
